The following poems are all about my Mother.....
Her life was not as glorious as some,
My mother passed away on June the ninth.
I ride the waves along the rock-strewn shore.
M-O-T-H-E-R
M is for the million things she gave me,
O means only that she's growing old,
T is for the tears she shed to save me,
H is for her heart of purest gold;
E is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
R means right, and right she'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell "MOTHER,"
--Howard Johnson (c. 1915)
THE TRUEST FRIEND
A mother is the truest friend we have,
Washington Irving (1783-1859)
Mom lived her life for love of friends and family,
[Author Unknown}
MOM, I LOVE AND MISS YOU DESPERATELY.....
even after 9 long years, that you do not enter
my mind......
they are her and how she lived.........
What a great Mother I had...........
Devoted to her children and their children,
Taken up by quiet tedium:
What's left when dreams are scattered to the wind.
She loved too well, perhaps, and fought too hard
To make a marriage work that wasn't right.
She was, of all bright loveliness, a shard
Struck off to bring our lives the gift of light.
There are those whose lives are shaped by love;
Whose pleasures, rich and full, are found in giving;
Who make our wild hearts bloom and passions move
Into measured fields made lush by living.
Without her all the gold's gone from the day;
She will be missed far more than we can say.
I loved her deeply; now she's gone.
All my life I'd known that I was loved,
Living in the circle of her arms.
I can't believe her love is not somewhere,
So strong it was, so much a part of me.
I feel it in the harsh salt of the sea
And in the stinging sadness of the wind.
No one watches me with fear and pride.
Now among the stars I am alone.
In her heart I had my only home.
A word that means the world to me.
when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us;
when adversity takes the place of prosperity;
when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine,
desert us when troubles thicken around us,
still will she cling to us,
and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to
dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to
return to our hearts.
Neither asking for nor wanting a return.
Her days became a sunlit homily,
With others' joy her joy and main concern.
When we were ill, she also became sick;
When we were cut, she, too, began to bleed.
Of our oil lamp she was the wick,
Drawing her bright flame from our need.
Some say that such behavior's out of date:
That self-fulfillment is the way to grace.
But Mom, without much choice, then chose her fate,
Finding greater truth in an embrace.
She lives on in the sparkle in our eyes:
Laughing, quiet, gentle, loving, wise.
